Hole in My Chest
by MayMargaret
Summary: A young man is at the lowest point of death, but can a nameless survivor bring him back, and herself back in turn, when the worst happens? Disclaimer; I own neither franchises
1. Chapter 1

Somewhere in a hospital, a girl opened her eyes.

Not a girl locked away in a secret room, right at the back of the bottom most floor for dramatic purposes. No, instead she was on the middle floor, in an abandoned ward. It appears that no one came to take her away once the outbreak began. It seems that the ones who should have loved her enough to do so either scarpered or became what they should have saved her from.

She wasn't locked away, but as the secret to survival of the human race she could have been, she should be. Somewhere…safe.

My eyes felt heavy as I opened them, the oxygen cramming into my lungs until it frazzled my taste buds. It was a sudden awakening, not gradual or dreamlike in the least. Ironically, the sweet flute of morning birdsong fluttered past my ears. But my heart thudded itself in interruption to pry the doors to my consciousness with bleeding nails.

I scanned my surroundings in a darting motion, my head being all that would obey my orders to move. It probably used to be pure white, given away by the random smear of brown next to a missed streak of white. That's when the oder hit me. Iron, rust, toxic, old, dust. Not quite blood, not quite faecal, almost visceral. Just all bad stuff, rolled together to insult the human senses without killing. Or maybe I was alive thanks to the disinfectant.

I look down to my hands, ask them to move, and they move. "Thank god," I breathed, leaning up to prove I hadn't forgotten how to move myself. I felt like id mastered a physics calculation, and kept the solution close to the forefront of my brain. I hopped out of bed, almost jumping back on as my feet slammed on the frozen ice sheet covering the floor, invisible of course. I take another look around, the room seeming a lot smaller now I was standing. I realised the curtains were drawing me into a box. I poked and waved my hand through until I found an opening, and pealed it back to peak. The baron ward was silent, grey and dusty.

…

The pale undead, the restless dead, the walking corpses, the woken, the sleepless, the anonymous…

I sigh as my new game finally draws to its natural and inevitable close.

Oh, the inevitables…

Nah, sounds like a group of superheros rather than the name for the dead surrounding me, shuffling so noticeably that their mother would scorn them for sloppiness. I gaze around my person in an attempt to make myself appear less like the gormless faces, empty gazes with empty vision. It was vaguely annoying that they didn't trip or fall over a fallen brick. Not that id find it funny. Even if I did, I couldn't even smirk.

I sometimes wonder how I would introduce myself, beyond the sophisticated groan I have mastered.

"Hi, my name is Rrrr…..s…."

No, that would not do. If I were to meet one of the living, I don't want to die all over again. I want to appear like ive got more smarts about me.

"Hey, you don't know me. Hell, I don't know me. But just let me have a slice of your brain and I'll be more personable, I swear."

Sometimes I wish I could talk as fast as I could think. I wonder how I'd reply if that girl over there came over, the light of life beaming in her dead, saved in eyes, walking instead of lumbering.

"Hi," I would begin. "R is my name and death is my game."

No, if death was my game that sentence would come out as a series of eloquent murmurs. Maybe ill just forget it.

I was probably a douche bag anyway when I could talk. Yeah, maybe im better this way.

Maybe im better looking this way.

I sure as hell don't have the stress in my life to give me wrinkles.

All I do is eat, shuffle, groan, eat and think. Like an intelligent dog. I think that thinking gives me authority around here. I should walk straighter to assert my authority. I give it a thought, but recall the last time I tried it and disliking the sound the sacs between my vertebrae made, like wet rubber.

The city is unusually busy. By that I mean, considering there are none of the living around to hunt. If that were the case, zombies would be the flies. Maybe that's why its so busy; new recruits.

Why am I here? I glance down at my shirt; no fresh blood. Im glad my memory isn't failing me. I was sure I hadn't killed today. This week infact. I should change that.

I instantly start looking for M, but hes nowhere in sight. I take a chance, scanning for the living among the dead. In all this rust and rot, I couldn't smell them if I tried, and if I did it would most likely be the fresh red around their mouths. I venture out through them, occasionally bumping into the shoulder of an ex office worker with bits of unidentifiable tissue stuck in their hair, and log all the places I cant remember attacking. That's where they'll be, waiting with their firearms brandished, boasting invconvenient accuracy. If anyone thought it would be more plausible that humans are more scared of us, that would be a slight error. The humans were quick, trained, organised, smart. We relied on hunger, sense and the energy from our last feeds. I would say the fear is just about even.

Maybe, from a logical point of view, (hey, logical, logical zombie, ha) one could see why they would be frightened. Our stench, our eerie countenance, our pale faces, our ugly out of date fashion. Maybe it's the question of who we have stuck in our teeth. Maybe it's the fact that with one bite, they could drop dead. Or worse…

Rise to become me.

A huge building come into sight as I slowly plod around a balding skyscraper, and recognise it, but cannot picture the interior.

Maybe…

…

Unfortnately my reason for my stint hospital wasn't urgent enough to have on the table surgery; not a drill, saw, even a scalpel in sight. Not a single think to arm myself with.

That's when I hear it.

An ear shattering, high pitched wail breaks my concentration, and for a while I just stand there. I don't know how long I wait until the echoes leave the building.

_OK, ok, breathe. Breathe…_

I found myself pacing, thinking, and take a quick glance out of the window, so bright was the light that shielded me with an off white glow reflecting off of the thin coating of the curtains. You would hardly believe it came from the sunless sky outside, the clouds looking more like a thick grey gazebo. I look down, not that high off the ground. I could see details, including the very few people, what they wore, the fallen bricks and tiles littering the roads. I noticed that not once did the few people even seem to acknowledge each other. All individual, walking about like they were the last living people in the world.

Wait…

Something tugged at my memory, just in time for my eyes to capture and follow a black head lumbering into the building, disappearing beneath the sheltered entrance.

Oooooh crap. No, no don't come in here! Nothing here!

Now I remembered, what the wails were from, what happened to the city, like all others in the known world. Small nigglings of information hit me, crept up, slapped me in the face and tugged at my memory, not all in order. But I pieced them together.

I just couldn't remember what the hell I was doing here.

I instantly found the bedside cabinet and began dismembering it, until I ended up with a long stick, about the size of a baseball bat. It would do, at least. I hopped back onto the bed to steady my nerves, maybe delay being found for as long as possible, if at all. Then I'd decide what to do.

I hear a clatter down the outer corridor, and my chest feels like its about to burst. My stomach churns uncomfortably, my head floats in adrenaline. I secure my hand around the bludgeoning weapon until I feel on of the edges crushed against the whole of my palm.

The footsteps creep closer, closer, infrequent and clumsy and heavy. I begin to jump at each one, noticing how close each one took whatever was out there.

Then it stops. I wait, and hold my breath. I don't dare to put my feet to the floor, potentially casting shadows. Instead, I wait. I wait for a whole minute.

I hear a low grunt, and then further silence, until I hear more steps. I gently lower myself, delicately placing my feet to the floor.

…

I wait patiently, while the hunger lays at bay. Really, I barely notice it. But a hospital, to myself. Who can resist.

I listen out for any signs of life, and get nothing. I wait in the third floor ward, it looks like there was a horrible accident, or massacre of the dead, brown smears along the curtains of one particular bed. The stench overpowers everything when theres that much.

Huh.

I grunt in vague interest, and shuffle closer. My slow eyes catch a movement below, tiny shadows growing out beneath the white sheets.

Ah.

…

I edge the curtain closer, constantly listening out for anything, any sign of anything. I was sure having a weapon wasn't a good idea in such taught circumstances, but what the hell. Better than having my face eaten off.

Finally, I peak through the hole, and a grey eye appears before mine. My hand clenches around the edge of the curtain, but I back away and slip, taking the curtain with me. The weakened rungs snap and fall onto the zombie's head, not bothering him in any way. Really, he just stands there, watching me.

…

I watched the girl fall back in fear, and im too slow to catch her. My dead, decaying body with no reflexes, my dumb struck school boy awe, could be anything. But I feel ill. I dislike the look in her eyes. The flinch at the frightened whimpers escaping from her full lips, while my decayed ones begin to mumble.

I edge forward, my hand outstretched like some moronic attempt of peace offering. But she takes it the wrong way. She lunges forward, the long stick in her hand pointed straight for me. I feel the scrape against my throat, and my weak feet fail. I fall on my back with her stubbornly holding on to her weapon, following me down.

Well, this is awkward.

Instinct kicks in, and I roll her on her back. She falls off me, and yanks out the stick, which as probably left a gaping hole in my neck. I hold her down by the neck, not quite squeezing the life from her lungs.

Her panicked eyes, angered and spitting venom at me, are too much to bare. I try to keep my eyes on my own hand, concentrating on the kill. Her legs continue to kick, and I find I admire her will for survival.

Just then, I feel something. In my chest, my vast cavity, as inactive and dusty as this building. I must be imagining it.

A drop of thick brown, like paint, drops onto the back of my tensed hand, and im mesmerised as it rolls onto the pale white of her throat, nearly disappearing into the mass of copper waves. An idea strikes.

I don't quite let go of her neck, but let my hand run the ex-blood up her jaw and her face. I then bring the finger to my lips.

"S..shhh..sh."


	2. Chapter 2

I am stunned into silence, frozen gradually as my legs weaken in energy. The hand, neither warm nor cold around my neck, loosens. But I can't run. I think I must be in a state of shock.

The boy backs away, his terrifyingly grey eyes wide with something I can't quite put my finger on. He disappears from my vision, a dangerous thing I'm allowing there. I struggle to sit up, using only my arms as levers, and prop myself up on my elbows.

He looks at me, with eyes that are not quite seeing, just icey cold, like they're painted on closed lids to pretend. He keeps his finger to his lips, so I follow his order. Keep quiet, don't let anything else find you, I'm starving here, I picture him saying. That keeps me from shuffling over to lean on the rails of the bed, next to him. That finger stays in place.

…

Shes frightened of me. At last, I'm the scarier one. I should feel happy about that, or as close to happy as a corpse can be. Perhaps content. Smug? Indifferent. I'm indifferent. But I don't like it, indifferent. Non-committal.

Why am I saving her? I don't know, but she looks as though she's settled on my motives. Keeping a kill to myself, no sharing; she's not a bucket of fried chicken.

"Shh…sh….k…k…e."

That went well.

She frowns at the sounds escaping my mouth, her bottom lip shaking. Her grey eyes never leave mine, invading them as though she thinks there's nothing there to invade. No soul, a soulless corpse slumped before her and therefore wouldn't mind. Hell, she impaled my neck with a stick! Sure sign she could care more.

My mouth seems to be making noises to argue against my inner monologue.

It starts with a popping sound. "S…sa…fe."

Im getting better at this.

…

Am I imagining this? Or am I actually knocked out and dreaming? Is he just wearing an outstanding disguise to blend in? Is he a little bit too committed to the role? Because if so, he should win something. An award, maybe, because I was sure he just spelt out 'safe'. Sure of it. But then I see the neck again, the black hole almost perfectly circular, and begin the vicious circle of disbelief all over again.

I hear that sound again, more distant now, but no less terrifying. It signals that I'm about to be a live meal, a cricket to a pagoda. Tears escape my eyes in a desperate, faithless bid to save myself.

"Please, please, don't hurt me."

He frowns, making his grey eyes more dominant of his features under the shadows of his thick eyebrows, and slowly shakes his head. "K…keep…safe-fe."

An involuntary gasp leaves my lips, and my limp arms loosen around my knees. "W-what?"

He looks looks like he's retching the words from his stomach, and his shaking hand rises to his chest, just below the hole. "S…sa..fe."

…

This is my life now. This is the world. I can impress a girl by making sounds that eventually gather into words. I stand and leave her on the floor to absorb the last few seconds, and gather the curtain in my arms, a slow and clumsy process. I hear shuffling about, and the girl comes into vision to help. I point up to the rail, motioning my plan. "Up…hi..hi…de…"

She wearily takes the curtain from the very edges, and throws it up so it hangs. She adjusts it until its equal both sides, and then widens it to cover the gap. "ok?"

I nod and hum in response, and gently and slowly pull the bed to fill the gap at the bottom. I nod in approval at my own work.

…

He certainly looks like a zombie, smells like flesh. Is that him? Or the oder emanating from whatever he's eaten? Has he just regressed this way as a result of being so isolated among the rest of them? I wonder internally, as the zombie movies I consider have otherwise severely misjudged the real thing. He talks, he thinks. Sure, his movements are sloppy and uncoordinated, his feet shuffle. He smells like the brown on the curtains, his clothes are holey and tattered. He's grey, a pale version of the colour of the clouds.

But his eyes aren't quite empty, and his brain hasn't quite stopped functioning just yet. While he moves the bed, however, I pick up the stick and wipe it clean, just in case. I never move my eyes from his person.

…

I waited for her to speak, to make any other sound that wasn't breathing to make the silence more bearable, less awkward. I have been sitting on the floor for this unendurably tense atmosphere for I don't know how long, while she sits on the bed and waits, her feet dangling off the edge. Its amazing how long I've been away from a living person, you never have this neurosis around the unspeakable dead. They just wander, and sometimes its comforting to know that they don't care, they don't see you. One might as well have evolved with the gift of invisibility.

But now, im around someone how has the ability to think as much, as fast, and as deep as I can, but its not unusual for them. Its compulsory, its nature for her.

…

I waited for him to launch his attack for minutes, but after a while I gave up. I wasn't really expecting anything now, since he displayed the human characteristic of innovation. The curtain, I could tell, was more protective than it looked. The smell emanating from him was characteristic of what he was, which I was now certain of his state of being. The smell was so strong, it negated any other smell. That's why I've subconsciously endured the smearing on my neck. Protection, a guise.

I look down on him, his black head trained forward to the opposite curtain, and consider saying something. I don't want to offend him by asking questions to which he might not know the answer; do they remember anything from their past? I had the slight memory of the news broadcasters warning us that they're not really the people they once were; just vessels, animals at their most savage form.

But was that true for this guy? He looked human, and sounded like a severely drunk one. He hadn't once attempted to kill me yet, I didn't even feel that desperation when he had me pinned to the floor.

He didn't strike me as dead as the undead I was used to seeing on film, was that a mistake? Or was it accurate, for anyone but him?

…

A small tap sounds next to me, and I check my periphery to find the girl making her way to the floor next to me. She isn't sitting away, she is directly facing me, intrigue in her countenance.

"I have some questions, not particularly in order of importance."

I frown, and thank the lord for her not talking to me like a toddler, since my speech was as advanced as one. I nod curtly.

"Ok, first off, do you have a name?"

That earlier line popped into my head, but now I was coming up to saying it, I questioned whether my name really began with R. It never felt right, but what did? I simply chose it because the first words remember I heard from anyone were, "Are you-", right when I bit his throat, made him like me. Mine and M's friendship didn't get off to the best of starts. I wonder if his name began with M. Anyway, I always thought it was something weird, like U. But then I can't think of any conventional names beginning with U.

I place my hand on my chest, for no reason at all. "U..U." I draw it in the air with my grey-white finger."

She nods, and smiles in a way that nearly reaches her eyes. "Ok."

Carefully, my fingers guide themselves to her chest, touching at the point of her throat, where mine was punctured. A solemn expression comes to her face, and she nods. "I don't know."


	3. Chapter 3

I turn round so I mimic U's position against the railings of the bed, and fight the tears. I'm might consider being jealous, but I'm not. He has a name, or the beginnings of one, something to be referred to. What did I have?

I feel a set of fingers brush my arm, and I turn my face to him. He's starting up at me, slouching over to get a look. His eyes look like an attempt at sadness. His lips open, move up and down, and his eyes move away in concentration. Pity swells with my chest, and I feel as though im watching a man with a stutter struggle against his own thoughts. Finally, he looks back up, and instead silently reaches for my eyes. I don't realise until his shiny finger pulls out back into my vision that I am indeed crying.

He shakes his head, and whispers in his raspy voice, "Don't…c-cry."

"You should keep talking," I breathe, wiping my tears away. "You're getting better. Could you talk before?"

"N-nev-ver…t-tr-ied."

I can't help but gaze at him in disbelief. His eyes shift beneath my eyes, and he backs away to his original stoic position, his face always turned my way. His chin length black hair falls into his eyes, but it doesn't bother him.

"How do you…do that? Did I dream the zombie apocalypse bit?"

He shakes his head. "N-no. It..Ha-happened. T-to..me." His hand places itself on his chest again.

"But…are there others like you? Who can…talk?"

He shrugs. I prefer that to a blunt 'no'.

…

Why is she looking at me that way? I knew why, "zombies don't talk," and all that. But why isn't she disgusted, visibly, by the fact that she's talking to a corpse? Why isn't she sickened that my rotted teeth cant form words as fast as she can?

Why is she still in this building with me, in this room?

Why am i?

The trivial matter of time fades into awareness, and while I don't give it much thought usually, I find its affecting my otherwise uninterrupted routine of wondering and groaning discernibly at M. I attempt to stand, but the small issue of the girl is affecting me. What do I do with her? I'm guessing you can't expect to kill someone after establishing a rapor with them and not feel a twinge of guilt. I also know I can't leave her here. I don't know, getting out of here could be tricky with all the Boney's on the ground floor. I'd be fine, but a living girl? She stands out anyway, but as a lifer all she needs is blood and a pulse to push it into the tissues, and she's irresistible.

I stand eventually, and her panicked eyes stare up at me. "Where're we going?" I like how she's automatically paired us up, it makes it easier. Still, I feel her life in my hands like a delicate ornament I never want to break. I check the old blood on her neck, and sniff.

"C-cop-py…me."

How I could ever get her to look dead, I don't know. But the Boney's don't notice anything that smells like us. It's the others I worry about.


End file.
